Obviously Friends
by HpFanficFan
Summary: John gets shot again. Sherlock deletes his flower information repository. Established friendship is...established.


**Obviously Friends**

Sherlock Holmes did not have any friends, obviously.

There was John, of course. Sherlock had only referred to John as his friend once, when he introduced him to Sebastian Wilkes. John quickly asserted that they were colleagues. Sherlock wasn't quite sure how to respond to John's dismissal. Did John not want to be friends? Later, he concluded that John was sparing him the ridicule that was on the tip of Wilkes' tongue. Having seen how Sally reacted to Sherlock having a colleague. John, not being an idiot, had clearly predicted that Wilkes was about to say something extremely irritating. Actually being friends or not did not even come into play. But Sherlock never introduced John as his friend again.

"I don't have friends, Mycroft!" Sherlock was draped over the sofa as he scowled at his brother.

"Not even that doctor of yours?"

"Who, John?"

"Who else?" Mycroft hummed, leaning lightly on the umbrella he carried everywhere he goes. John wondered if there was some sort of secret compartment or hidden blade inside. When he asked Sherlock, the detective huffed and admitted that he'd been trying to steal it for years. John was told that the black umbrella appeared twelve years ago after an unpleasant undercover assignment in Romania. When the younger Holmes asked about it, the elder told him to mind his own business. Sherlock's curiosity and tenacity never wavered, but Mycroft was always one step ahead of him, despite multiple attempts to take the belonging.

"He's my flatmate," said Sherlock.

"Is that a recent deduction?" Mycroft quipped.

"He is my assistant. I need an assistant," said Sherlock, matter-of-factly.

The elder Holmes raised his eyebrows. Sherlock noticed that the distance between eyebrows and hairline were getting greater. He made a mental note to mock Mycroft about it one day.

"Only an assistant? I would have thought you'd given him a promotion by now," Mycroft responded.

"John is my colleague…partner, we live together as flatmates and solve crimes that baffle the combined brain power of the Met…as partners."

"Oh, are you partners now? Am I going to get an invitation to the wedding?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."

"Alright, not your friend, then? Is friend too tough a commitment for you?"

Sherlock gave his brother a chilly glare and said with rising acrimony. "Did you forget that you don't have any friends, either? Why are you asking, anyway? You never before cared whether I have friends or not."

Mycroft sighed deeply. "It's not you that I'm worried about, little brother."

Sherlock sat up straighter and leaned forward slightly. "John does not need your concern either, big brother," he said with distaste.

"He was willing to die for you, Sherlock. How many people you know would be willing to do that?"

"Not you, obviously," Sherlock huffed.

Mycroft frowned. "I know you find this hard to believe, but I am on your side. There are certain things worth being concerned about, and I am not talking about one of your ghastly experiments…"

Sherlock cut him off. "You were the one who told me that caring is not an advantage, Mycroft."

"When have you ever listened to me? If you've found a friend in John then I am happy for…"

"Stop talking now or you'll risk sounding sanctimonious. I am not a child any more. I'll thank you to leave me to manage my own affairs. Go... conquer an island in Philippines or something," he said, dismissing Mycroft with a wave of his hand as he bounced to his feet and hollered towards John's bedroom.

"John, do we have any Marmite?" Mycroft hated the stuff and Sherlock would take great pleasure in forcing it down his brother's gullet if it would shut him up.

"I do wonder - " Mycroft continued unperturbed, turning his head to follow his younger sibling. "It has been so long since Mummy made us take that personality test – would your results be any different now? I know mine wouldn't."

Sherlock didn't answer.

* * *

Five months later, the crime-fighting duo was happily running down a pedigree nobleman with some supposedly impressive title. Sherlock couldn't be bothered to figure out the British system of nobility. The posh aristocrat had somehow got himself tangled up in a crime syndicate that extended its network into Russia and everything in between. Now he had a price on his head the size of the GDP of the Solomon Islands. Mycroft badgered Sherlock to be discrete, groaning at the prospect of damage control if the news leaked. The news agents would no doubt be delighted in having a scandal to increase their readership.

Sherlock's mind palace acted like a satnav and guided them into a lonely, unlit car park where the zealous detective forgot one of his own vital rules; never underestimate the criminal.

He was careless. He was bored! He sought danger, adventure, and adrenaline. There hadn't been a case this exciting in months and Sherlock could physically feel his brain rotting away! He needed the high that cases gave him, and all the recent clients were boring. Boring, boring, BORING! In his haste to catch the runaway and his frenzy to solve the conundrum, Sherlock had missed the vital signs warning him of an impending threat. John, despite his military instincts and lightning reflexes, never saw it coming. There was no time to avoid the catastrophic event that resulted in John getting a bullet lodged in his chest.

"John! John!"

John was not afraid of dying. He didn't fear pain. He had not been afraid of dying alone in the vast Afghan desert. He wasn't afraid now, but he was glad Sherlock was there.

"John, are you alright?"

Stupid question for a clever man, John thought. He'd been shot in the chest, chances of surviving – the former army medic reckoned- were less than thirty percent.

Blood had already coloured John's sweater, seeping uncontrollably from the wound.

"John, tell me what to do! I don't know what to do!" Sherlock demanded, his voice quivering. His hand jerked as he scoured his mind palace for something, anything that could help.

There wasn't much Sherlock could do. He wasn't a trained physician or a paramedic. Once upon a time Sherlock could recite Gray's Anatomy, list the names of all 206 bones in the adult human body and perform first aid on trauma victim.

The only problem was…he'd deleted most of it. Sherlock reasoned that he wouldn't need it anymore, because he had John. Sherlock trusted that John would have the expertise required and the aplomb to apply it. He'd never imagined a scenario in which John would not be there, or be incapacitated to such a degree.

_Idiot!_ There had to be some knowledge tucked away somewhere: if only he could find it! But his mind palace was empty of relevant medial knowledge; nothing remained that could help John now.

"John, I'm sorry… I don't know," Sherlock's slumped over as he knelt beside John on the concrete. Sherlock Holmes, the imperturbable detective, was starting to lose control. All his normal composure fell away. "I used to…know the basics, but I…"

"Deleted…" John wheezed through his teeth.

"I'm sorry."

John tried to take deep, steady breaths. He needed to keep calm and think logically, not panic.

"Keep me still," he instructed, his training kicking into gear, "apply…pressure."

John felt pressure on this chest and clenched his teeth as the pain swelled. This wasn't the first time their adventures had gone pear-shaped, of course. Hell, he'd been strapped to a bomb with a half a dozen snipers pointed at him. They probably would have gotten blown up if it wasn't for Irene Adler.

"John! Stay awake! Come on!"

"Sherlock," John said, mustering all the dignity and integrity he could. "Sherlock, it has been an honour."

What do you say to your best friend when you lay dying in his arms? Do you tell him that it'll be alright? Do you ask him to tell your family that you love them?

_Oh god, please let me live._ John let out a weak snort. That was what went through his head last time he'd been shot. There was no one there to talk to, so he prayed to a god he didn't believe in. John wasn't afraid to die but that didn't mean he was okay with it. He was most definitely not okay with dying. He wanted to live, like any other sane human being. He didn't die that time in Afghanistan, which pleased him. Dying was so dull….well, that was just perfect. He was beginning to sound like Sherlock, god help him!

God…please don't let me die.

"John…what…?"

What do you say to your best friend when you lay dying in his arms when your best friend is the inconsiderate, arrogant sod, Sherlock Holmes? There's no point in reassuring Sherlock because, first of all, it would be a lie and John didn't know if it'd be okay. Secondly, 'it's okay' was something you didn't say to Sherlock Homes because the self-diagnosed sociopath still had trouble grasping the concept of sentiment.

So what were John's other options? Ask Sherlock to deliver a message? John scoffed inwardly to himself. Harry was his closest living family member. John wasn't sure she could show up at his funeral sober, and if he only had a few breaths left, he wouldn't waste them on her. He could tell Sherlock that it wasn't his fault. But John knew those words would be for naught because Sherlock would pay no attention, blame himself anyway and declare that John would never be in this dire situation if it wasn't for him.

"Damn it, John!" Sherlock cursed and proceeded to use the most colourful array of the Queen's English John had ever heard. That was saying something because, believe it or not, army men swore like Malcolm Tucker from hell. It was a shame he wasn't aware enough to fully appreciate the volley of creative cursing.

Oh god, he was really going to die, wasn't he? He was going to perish in the car park of a god damned library. It was sort of funny. John Hamish Watson, doctor soldier turned premature veteran of a bloody war, survived through hails of bullets and bombs in Afghanistan, should die in some vacant London library car park. Sherlock would have said it was boring.

"John! Fight it, you have to keep fighting. You're a soldier, aren't you?"

Yes, he is. You could leave the military, but the military stayed with you for a long time, whether you liked it or not. Captain John Watson had been trained and prepared for something like this. So he could keep his sangfroid and remain composed even at death's door. He knew he could face death with stoicism. But, stoicism does not equate resignation. He was dying, but he was not going to give up without a fight. With Sherlock's words of encouragement, John took in a painful breath and felt satisfied as oxygen filled his lungs.

John looked straight up at his best friend. "Sherlock…" he began to say, but cut off when his body seized up with pain. It was inconvenient that he could feel pain, along every inch of the path the bullet had travelled as it cut through his flesh. He'd hoped he would go into shock and feel very little, but still have enough cognitive ability left to form full words and phrases. But the pain did not ebb.

"Ambulance on the way. Hang on…please."

John was half gone, but he could still hear and perceive the emotion in Sherlock's voice. Despite popular belief, Sherlock was perfectly capable of feeling a multitude of human emotions and right now it was a combination of fear, helplessness and desperation. John could have sworn that Sherlock shed a tear.

A few seconds of happiness turned into distress when he realized that he would never have the chance to mock Sherlock over this. In truth, the good doctor would never say anything cruel. He'd live through losing his greatest friend and he'd barely gotten over it before the bastard popped back into existence. He still remembered vividly what it was like for those two years Sherlock was 'dead'. He wouldn't wish that experience on anyone.

'Sherlock, it has been an honour.' It was the only thing John could think to say, so he said it again. It seemed appropriate under the circumstances. In addition, they were the truest words he ever uttered, other than that Sherlock was an inconsiderate, arrogant sod.

John was accustomed to working under severe distress, duress and pressure. The doctor knew exactly what to do if Sherlock had been the victim. But, for all that education, training and experience, a doctor—no matter how good—could not operate on his own chest to save his own life. John didn't mind though. Better him than Sherlock. There were lots of Johns in the world, lots of brilliant doctors and brave soldiers and overachieving soldiers with medical degrees. But, there was only one consulting detective in the world, and the world, specifically London, couldn't afford to lose him. London could afford to lose John.

John blinked, and his mind began to drift. He found it increasingly difficult to make sense of what Sherlock was saying. He could see his friend's lips moving, but it seemed that whatever sound he picked up was not being processed by his brain, which had probably prioritized trying to keep his body from completely shutting down. John wondered what his tombstone would say. He felt absolutely morbid thinking it, too. Not that any of it mattered.

John H. Watson (god please let it say H.): doctor, soldier, assistant consulting detective, friend.

* * *

John's eyes flickered open and he saw a black blur whip across the room and the sound of a door being open and shut. Not a minute later, Sherlock dragged John's doctor into the room and set rapid-fired questions at both of them. John nodded gravely as the cardiac surgeon explained what happened; bullet in his chest, penetration into the anterior wall of the right ventricle causing pericardial tamponade. It made his bullet wound from Afghanistan seem like child's play.

He didn't remember falling asleep.

* * *

"Whas the time?" John asked groggily.

"It is four in the morning; your surgery finished fifteen hours ago."

John rubbed his face. "That long?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, monotone.

The sleepy man shifted under the covers. "So…what happened?"

"You got shot."

John nodded slightly. "Yeah… I figured as much," he mumbled somnolently.

"Go back to sleep."

John slept.

* * *

When the doctor turned patient woke up again, it was late morning. The sedatives were still working their way through his system and from John's experience it could be awhile before he completely recovered from the anaesthetic. Sherlock took some time to brief the bedridden man about the last day and current status of the case. John listened with all the attention his drug-addled brain could manage.

Thirty hours after John was shot, he was moved out of the ICU and into a private recovery room filled with flowers, balloons and get-well-soon gifts. A stack of cards sat on a table next to his bed. To his astonishment, there was a card from Harry. It looked like it had been picked up randomly from some corner shop, and there was nothing personal written on except for John's name and Harry's signature. John had the nagging feeling that someone had coerced Harry into sending it.

No sooner had John been moved to the new room than Sherlock had started pacing around in it.

"You're bored, aren't you?" John asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Extremely," Sherlock replied without stopping or looking his blogger.

"You don't have to stay here, you know. Go solve the case."

"Already done, well nearly. But don't worry, Mycroft has the MI6 doing the legwork."

"MI6? You didn't say anything about the SIS being involved before."

"I did mention it, but then you feel asleep. Besides, it's supposed to be confidential. I'm not at liberty to tell you."

"But you don't care about national security, do you?"

Sherlock snorted. "You are relatively harmless, John, at least to England. You fought for Queen and country. I doubt you'll use this information to commit treason. Besides, my brother isn't deluded. He knows you're far too loyal for your own good. No, he's afraid that you'll let something slip into your blog."

Sherlock said the last word with distaste, but John paid no attention.

"Hm...So, are you going to tell me what this is all about or not?"

Sherlock smirked and sat down on a chair next to John. "Of course I am."

* * *

A fresh breeze drifted through the open window, and seagulls' squawks infiltrated the room. It was early-afternoon, the sun was shining and Sherlock was whining.

"There is a minefield of flowers in this room, John. I don't know how you can stand it. I can't even breathe!" Sherlock complained as he wrinkled up his nose in displeasure.

"Leave the flowers be, Sherlock," said John.

"I'm throwing these out," Sherlock remarked as he plucked out a handful of white, orange and purple flowers.

"Oi! What did I just say?"

"Lathyrus odortus, calendula, white chrysanthemum... idiots! Sherlock snapped as he turned on his heel and dumped the unfortunate flora into the bin.

"Sherlock, what did you do that for? Those were from Molly and Mrs. Hudson!"

"The flowers, John!" the detective beseeched in a dramatic tone, "those flowers are wholly inappropriate to send to you in this occasion. This is a hospital not a hospice! Those flowers symbolize grief and farewell, and seeing as how you are not dead and nobody is grieving, they are inappropriate. Why does everyone send flowers, anyway? They are absolutely useless."

"It's the thought that counts. And nobody knows what they're supposed to symbolize…they're just flowers. It's tradition."

"It's a stupid tradition, and I know their meaning." Sherlock announced aloofly.

John sighed and grimaced as he adjusted himself into a more comfortable position. Sherlock appeared at his side.

"Are you okay? Should I shout for the nurse again?"

"I'm fine…hang on," John looked up at Sherlock inquisitively. "You're telling me that you deleted medical knowledge, but kept symbolic meaning of flowers in your head?"

Sherlock only starred back at John with his 'obviously' look. "Yes. Not good?"

"Uhh…well, there's nothing wrong with that, per se. But personally, I'd say flowers would not take precedence over actual medical knowledge that could actually come in handy. I mean, heaven forbid if someone were to be shot."

Sherlock inclined his head. The dark humor was lost on him. "Sorry."

"No, no that's not what I mean at all," John said, hurrying to rephrase so that there would be no misunderstanding. The look on Sherlock's face said it all: guilt and shame. John didn't want Sherlock to think that he was blaming him. "I only meant…"

"I know what you meant," Sherlock cut in. "I will delete my flower information repository tonight."

John chuckled heartedly. "Your flower information repository?"

Sherlock ignored him, "That means you will have to learn the names and meanings of 1155 species of flora."

John blanched.

"Wait…what?"

"If I ever require information on flowers, I will have to depend on you, John!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"One-thousand one-hundred and fifty-five?" John enounced.

Sherlock thinned his lips, and put on a very fake look of distress. "I regret to inform you that this is nowhere near the actual figure of the world's known species of flowers. Unfortunately I cannot recite the names of all of them. It would be absurd to memorize every single one of them."

"How? How can you possibly know 1155 species of flower, you nutter? How do you justify keeping _that _and deleting the solar system?" John exclaimed. He couldn't say whether it was subnormal of Sherlock to do such a thing, but it did catch him off guard.

Sherlock shrugged. "It is a bit arcane, isn't it? I know their scientific names, where they grow, what they traditionally symbolize. It is not that difficult."

"For god's sakes Sherlock, why? No wait, don't tell me…it was for a case."

"It was for a case." Sherlock answered at precisely the same moment.

John chuckled while Sherlock allowed a small grin to grace his face.

"Yes, a very intriguing conundrum. Took place in a manor house up in Wales. It all came down to the jealous florist, who was having an affair with Lady Bronwen, which interfered with the delicate watering timetable that had to be followed to keep the manor's exotic plants in bloom." Sherlock explained, eagerly. "I'll tell you about it sometime. As for the solar system, it is irrelevant."

"I look forward to it." John laughed, and shook his head and beheld the wonder that was Sherlock Holmes. The man never ceases to surprise him. "Really. 1155 species of flowers?"

"Yes, that's what I said. You haven't gone deaf, have you?"

John took the jibe in stride. "That is crazy. You," he pointed at his friend. "…are amazing."

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock murmured.

"What do people normally say…piss off?"

"Piss off." Sherlock said at the same time as John.

John laughed joyously and Sherlock joined in this time. John was one of precisely three people in the world whom Sherlock could laugh with and not at.

"So you think I can memorize 1155 species of flower?" John said when he'd stopped chuckling. "I think I'll take that as a compliment."

"Don't. I was being sarcastic." Sherlock replied honestly.

"Just as well, I know bugger-all about plants."

* * *

John watched the detective with an amused frown as the gangly man swivelled around the room, grumbling lugubriously. He could see that the usually obstreperous detective was trying very hard to refrain from making a ruckus for John's benefit. It may not seem like such a chore to stay quiet in a hospital, but it was a manifestation of selflessness when it came to Sherlock.

"So, what are you going to name this one, then?" Sherlock inquired after a while.

"Hm. I'm not sure… the Noble Price?"

The detective scoffed without menace, "Bollocks."

"You don't like any of my titles, Sherlock," John protested.

"No, especially this one."

John rolled his eyes. "Well I'll think of something. May have to write up the blog post first before I choose a name."

Sherlock threw his head back and let out a whining noise to demonstrate that his boredom teetered on the brink of madness.

"I'm bloody starving. Any food around?" John asked, ignoring Sherlock's antics and looking around.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and blindly tossed John what looked like chocolate custard in a cup.

"Nicked it from the patient next door," he admitted after John had peeled off the lid.

John paused and gave Sherlock a disapproved look. "Should have known," he replied, shaking his head. "How many times have I told you that it's not okay to just take things from people? You're going to get yourself arrested one of these days."

"What, for pinching a custard cup?"

"No. Probably for breaking into Scotland Yard and stealing evidence."

"I've never been caught."

"Yes, you have."

"Never been arrested." Sherlock corrected, with an air of smug delight.

"That's only because it was Greg who caught you," John added. "And just because Mycroft can get you out of prison doesn't mean you can go around stealing police documents and other people's custard cups."

John ate the stolen custard anyway and spent the next half hour watching David Attenborough on the telly and chatting up a nurse. He probably could have gotten her number, too, if it wasn't for the fact that he fell asleep mid-speech and drooled all over himself…again. Damn drugs.

When the ill doctor woke up again it was to the grunts and grumbles of an extremely bored genius. John leaned back against a pillow, with an over-bed table across his legs. Mrs. Hudson had come in fussing and procured him some proper food in the form of pie and mash. John forked a healthy heap of potato into his mouth.

"Have you been pacing all this time?" He asked.

Sherlock grunted out an affirmation.

"Oh bloody hell, go solve another one. You're going to burrow through the floor," John insisted.

Sherlock glanced at his gown wearing flatmate. "That is unlikely. And there's nothing interesting right now."

"Surely there's something more interesting than the inside of this hospital room. Besides, if your brain is going to rot, I'd rather you do it outside."

The consulting detective shrugged. "My brain will survive."

John sighed. "Look, I know you're concerned and I appreciate you being here. But I'm fine. In fact, I'm great. However, you are going to give me whiplash with all that back and forth!" John waved his arms in exasperation.

He received no answer from Sherlock.

"Why don't you go ask Molly if she has a nice corpse or brain for you to experiment on?" John suggested practically, after all, the labs were only a few floors away.

Sherlock still made no comment.

John shook his head. Sherlock was as stubborn as ever. Molly told him that Sherlock hadn't left the hospital the whole time he'd been here. The army doctor refused to believe that the case had been solved or no longer needed Sherlock. No, Sherlock turned down the case with MI6 and Mycroft … so he could stay in this dreary hospital room. And do what? Watch John sleep?

"No," said the detective, stopping suddenly at the foot of John's bed and breaking John out of his thoughts. "To make sure you don't stop breathing."

"What?"

Sherlock made direct eye contact with John, and the doctor was taken aback by the intensity of the emotion behind those usually impassive eyes. "You are wondering why I'm bothering to stay here when there's an obviously fascinating case that will stimulate my mind more than any case has done for months. You think that I should go help Mycroft."

"I…"

"To answer your question. I'm here to make sure you don't stop breathing again."

John blinked several times. "Again?"

"You flat-lined. Your heart stopped once in the ambulance and again during the surgery," Sherlock replied with a scowl of disapproval and concern on his face.

"I…didn't know."

"Yes, well. Just don't do it again."

"I'll try my best."

Sherlock didn't look very happy with the answer. "It was a very distressing affair, you can imagine," he said discontentedly.

The army doctor cringed as he recollected the events led him having to have open-heart surgery. "I was there."

Sherlock frowned. "Yes."

There was a bit of silence and then Sherlock said, "In any case, I'm pleased that you did not die."

"Oh yeah?"

The detective nodded, walking closer to John. He flopped unceremoniously onto the end of John's bed like it was his own sofa, making it bounce and unsettling some peas from John's tray. His gangly legs bent over the edge and his feet were planted on the floor. "It would have been impossible to find another flatmate who is foolhardy enough to be my assistant."

John grinned at the brief humour. There was the Sherlock he knew. "Me, foolhardy? Look who's talking."

Sherlock made an unintelligent grunt.

"So, I'm still an assistant then? Seriously Sherlock, Mycroft was right, it's time I got a promotion and a bloody good raise." John said, feigning seriousness. "Come to think of it, how much am I getting paid?"

Sherlock's eyebrows twitched together, like he often did when deep in though. "I stand corrected. You're not my assistant, John."

"Oh? What am I then?"

"You're…" Sherlock paused, looking for the right words "My partner in detection."

"Partner in detection?" John echoed in an amused tone, looking down at the man on his bed.

"Yes"

"What is that?"

"You know, similar to partner in crime, but quite the opposite."

"Oh I see," John acknowledged, chuckling. "I'm sort of a co-consulting detective."

"Hmm," Sherlock mummed, still staring into the ceiling.

"The only one in the world."

"I suppose," Sherlock agreed, his voice dripping with satire. "Do you want a medal?"

"I could do with one, yeah," John replied unabashedly, and waited for a clever response.

But the consulting detective said nothing. Instead, he sat up and turned to stare at the blogger. John could almost see the synapses firing off in his brain thinking, observing, and deducing John Watson.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on John for several seconds before saying, "I never asked. Did you get a medal for your service in the military?"

John blinked several times in surprise at the unexpected question.

"No, I didn't."

"You were shot," Sherlock stated, as if it was a grievance that John had not even gotten one medal for all his trouble.

"Yes. But people don't get medals just for getting shot, you know. I didn't display any merit just for getting shot."

"Oh…I thought…never mind," Sherlock digressed and moved on to another question. "Were you hurt badly? Your shoulder, it functions at eighty-nine percent capacity and doesn't cause you any significant pain. But it bothers you when the weather is unusually cold or when the rain doesn't stop for weeks."

John hardly even notices the deduction. "It wasn't so bad. I lost quite a bit of blood by the time they got to me. But the wound itself healed nicely. I had to do some physiotherapy for the arm, it's not enough to get me back into the army, but you're right, it doesn't bother me most days. Why the sudden questions about this?"

"You saved lives that day. It nearly cost you your own. They didn't even give you a bloody medal to show off?" Sherlock protested, getting to his feet and hovering stiffly over John.

"Sherlock. I didn't join the military so I could get a medal," John exclaimed.

Sherlock gave John a prolonged look of discontentment, still frowning.

"You were never hurt this badly, not even in a warzone. This should never have happened."

"You know what they say about hindsight."

"Hindsight is a fallacy, John!" Sherlock shouted. He pivoted away from the bed and sped half way across the room before turning back to face his injured colleague, looking furious. "I do not live in hindsight. I should have seen it coming."

The veteran sighed deeply and grimaced as he looked up at his mate. "Sherlock, these things happen. We run around London, gallivanting off after god knows who and put ourselves in mortal peril at least once a month. You and I both know how dangerous our work is. We made plenty of enemies…well mostly you…but, the point is this isn't the first time my life has been in danger. Our luck's bound to run out one of these days. It's a miracle neither of us are crippled or dead."

No reply.

"This is _not _your fault, Sherlock."

Sherlock was only speechless when he was thinking. And, right now he was thinking about John. He used to think that people should be privileged if he found them interesting enough to talk with or their cases stimulating enough to solve. Now, he finally knew what it was like to be on the other side. Sherlock Holmes felt privileged that a man like John Watson would pay any attention to him.

"Would you quit starring? I hate it when you do that."

The consulting detective seemed to be imitating a statue.

"Hello? Earth to Sherlock?" said John lightly, looking up at his best friend.

For all his profound erudition and intellect, Sherlock never fully understood human emotion. Empathy was one emotion that, until recently, was alien to the anti-social prodigy. Knowing John, working with John, living with John, Sherlock learned more about human emotion than he let on.

"The honour is mine, John Watson," Sherlock said suddenly, softy, but with conviction.

"What was that?"

"My reply to your almost-famous last words."

It took a second for John to realize what Sherlock was saying.

_Sherlock, it has been an honour._

"Oh…" John began, genuinely surprised. "That's…good. Thank you."

Sherlock gave a curt nod and walked away to look out the window.

Nobody spoke for the next several minutes. John supposed that there wasn't anything else that needed to be said. He could tell that this ordeal had shook Sherlock. It was gratifying to learn his respect and affection for Sherlock was returned in full.

John smiled well-dressed man at the window sill. Five years ago, he had come back from the furious excitement of a battle zone to the mundane malcontent of civilian life, wondering how he was supposed to move on. Sherlock had given him back a sense of purpose. They had shaped each other's personal and professional lives, and have established the deepest friendship either has ever known.

The pregnant silence was only broken by a rapping on the door. A nurse came in and announced in a thick Scottish accent, "Excuse me, sir? Visiting hours are over. You have to leave."

Sherlock turned his head to glare at the small woman. "Leave? Why would I leave?"

"Sir, you can come back tomo…"

"I can't leave."

"Sir."

Sherlock stalked right up to the nurse and gave her a reproachful look.

"My friend had been shot through the chest, and I nearly had the bloody privilege of watching him die in my arms! I. Am. Staying." Sherlock pushed the startled woman out the room and propped up a chair against the door.

John didn't bother chastising the impossible man, because he was too busy smiling ear to ear.

_Friend._

"What?" Sherlock said defensively, looking like a child that had done something he knew he shouldn't have. "She was annoying. I'm not leaving and she can't make me."

John shook his head, his mouth in a grin but brows in a frown. "Nothing."

Sherlock blinked, looking at John quizzically. "If you want me to leave…"

"No. It's fine. Stay."

"Then what? Why are you looking at me like that? What is that expression?"

"Uh…surprise? Yea. But a good kind of surprise."

Sherlock turned his head a fraction of an inch as he surveyed John.

"You said I was your friend," John finally said.

"And?"

"You never said that before."

"Yes, I have."

"No, no you haven't."

"Yes, I have. I remember. Don't question my memory, John. It's infallible, unlike yours."

"Really? Was I present for that?"

"Yes."

"Really?" John repeated.

"Yes." Sherlock answered irritably.

"When was this?"

"The case with the Chinese smuggling ring. I introduced you to Sebastian Wilkes as my friend. You established rather quickly that we were colleagues. I assumed that you did not want our association to be classified as a friendship."

John narrowed his eyes, trying to recall that day. They had only known each other for a couple of months then, and John had learned to live with Sherlock's peculiar ways. But Sherlock had been a right dick that day and by the time they got to the bank, he was extremely annoyed with his flatmate. Sherlock hadn't acted like a very good friend. Besides, he didn't want explain to yet another person who was shocked by their partnership. Sebastian would have questions, people always did. He would ask how a person like John could ever be friends with a cock like Sherlock. Then John would have to sift through all the things that made Sherlock a cock to find the one thing that made him a friend.

So he said that Sherlock was a colleague. That was much easier to explain.

"Oh," said John, now feeling guilty. "I didn't mean that we weren't friends. I was just having a bad day."

"It doesn't matter."

"No. It matters. Sherlock. We are friends, you know that right?"

Sherlock looked at John with an exasperated expression.

"Obviously."

John smiled again. "Right. Obviously."

Sherlock sat down again and pouted.

"Now what?" John asked.

"I hate it when Mycroft is right. He'll be insufferable."

End

Thank you to my betas.

To Alexandria Keating, you've helped me so much girl. This fics is 100% better because of you. Thank you for putting up with my erroneous tense usage, sporadic pov changes, for making sentences flow better and for giving me such brilliant ideas!

To The Wistful Bloom, my lovely Brit-picker. Thank you for your advice, keen eyes and for fixing my grammar.


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